


Kids

by boxoftheskyking



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Gen, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho, after Thomas has been shot and taken by WICKED. <br/>Might end up a series, might not</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kids

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember the details of the scene, nor can I find my copy of Scorch Trials. So sue me.

It seems odd to him, at this moment, that he's never seen someone shot before. Sure, he still can't remember the details of his life before, but he has a vague knowledge of violence, news, television, movies, video games. Gunshot, recoil, buckshot, trigger finger, massacre, assault rifle, pistol, Glock, shell, bullet, safety off. They all mean something to him, somehow. Decapitation by amorphous silver goo, that was nothing from his life before. Griever. Flat trans. 

A gun seems so mundane. 

There's nothing mundane about the jerk of Thomas' body, though, the shock on his face, eyes wide. He looks confused and betrayed, like someone cheated at a game. 

Minho tripped him in a race once. They were just fucking around, blowing off steam. It wasn't all single-minded survival, in the Maze. Some days they gave up on finding anything and just –

Played. It was playing, he realizes now. Being kids, somehow, just for a minute or ten before they started feeling guilty.

"Minho," Newt bumps his shoulder. "You should drink some water or something."

He grunts.

"You hear me?"

He grunts again. Newt sighs and presses a water bottle into his hand. He takes it without looking, takes a swig, splashes a few mouthfuls down his front in his distraction.

"Come on, man," Newt mumbles, but the shove on his shoulder is gentler than usual. He leaves; he must, Minho's shoulder goes cold. As cold as it can in the Scorch.

He tripped Thomas in a race, once, just fucking around. He turned to gloat and saw Thomas go down, usual grace lost entirely, arms windmilling like a cartoon. His eyes wide, like a kid, like he couldn't believe it had actually, Minho had actually –

He tries really hard not to think of WICKED, of scalpels and experiments, of tests and cages and hamster wheels and mazes and Glades. Of groups of boys, locked together, waiting for Thomas. Of Thomas arriving up a darkened elevator into another Glade, another life, memory wiped clean.

He really does try. One of the boys tries to talk to him, serious, needing a Leader. Newt pulls him away, but they all stare at him, accusing, and he imagines, just for a moment, what it would be like to scream. Once, like an madman, like an animal, like a caged beast tearing at its own flesh. Proving his fearlessness, desperation, cowing them all into submission with each drop of blood from his mouth, shaking from his fingertips. Pushing them off, away, leaving them in the dust.

He shakes himself and stands up.

"You shuckfaces want to fry? Get the hell under some shade."

Newt holds onto his shoulder as they lead the group out of the open, away from Thomas' blood in the sand. Minho tries to shake him off, but he holds on.

"My leg hurts," he mutters, looking down like he's embarrassed. It's almost good enough. Minho's almost convinced. He doesn't say anything, lets Newt hold onto his shoulder, lets himself feel it.


End file.
